


Witching Hour

by sandstormhero



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Multi, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandstormhero/pseuds/sandstormhero
Summary: Commission - Discovering a forgotten temple that once worshiped the now extinct Incubi, Geralt of Rivia finds his quest to hunt down his lover Yennefer sidetracked as a lingering remnant of the cult's god fixes itself to the Witcher's spirit. Irreparably combined with a creature that demands the life energy of maidens and women alike, Geralt discovers that these same cravings can be sated by the magical energy of the witches and sorcerers he already knows all too well. And with the alternative of tens if not hundreds of dead women, it's up to them to satisfy Geralt's new appetite the only way they know how.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just one of the commissions I’ve worked on that I thought some of you might enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated and if you want to read more be sure follow/bookmark as there is already a third chapter locked in the queue. Look forward to it.**

* * *

 

**Chapter 1**

**Tag(s): N/A**

**Girl(s): N/A**

**Words: (4,950)**

The smell of sugar carried in the air wafting from the number of apple trees lining the roadside. Above the sun was bright and a gentle wind carried the scant number of white clouds across the sky at a leisurely pace. It was a beautiful day, a peaceful day, which only made Geralt’s blood-soaked blade and scarred face all the more alien to the nature around him.

The Witcher, as people called his kind, moved with purpose towards the location he was told he would be able to find a local hunter who would be able to tell him more about a griffin he’d been hired to take care of. Or, at least, hired in a way. Extortion might be closer to the truth. But so long as this job got him closer to finding the raven-haired witch, Yennefer, he would slay a thousand beasts. But as his journey continued day after day and he found his blade approaching that number, even Geralt’s stern patience was slowly meeting its limit.

He’d thought he’d finally caught a break when Gaunter O’Dimm had reported a sighting. But following the lead all the way to the nearest Nilfgaarden garrison, the commander of the fort had turned out to be far less forthcoming. Even his best attempts at intimidation had gained him little, forcing the white-haired monster hunter to finally ask what the pompous ass wanted in return, which is exactly how Geralt found himself once again traveling the length of the smaller territory bid to kill not only three nests of ghouls, but also a Griffon to boot.

Pompous indeed.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of a choice but to do as he was asked. Not if he didn’t want to waste time and let the trail get even colder than it already was. His only solace was that now he knew that Yennefer really had been here. No matter how bold, the commander wouldn’t be so foolish as to lie about that. You didn’t cheat a Witcher, after all. At least, no one cheated a Witcher and lived long enough to tell the tale.

It certainly helped his temper that he’d thought to bring Vesemir along who’d agreed to take on two of the three nests. Taking on all four objectives on his own might have taken longer than the information was worth, otherwise. Although, depending on how long hunting down this damn bird took, that could still very easily be the case.

As grumpy as he wanted to be, Geralt couldn’t say that the day had been a total loss. He’d already managed to kill his nest and had even found a nifty cache left by the Termerian Lilies of all things. And while it might have been profitable to loot the entire treasure, today he needed time more than money, and he’d limited himself to the full set of armor stashed inside.

It helped that it was nice armor. Light enough that it didn’t hinder his movement too much with enough layers that it should stop most attacks from piercing his skin. A combination of mail and leather, the thick black cotton overlayer was perfect for blending into the night and deflecting rain. Compared to his old worn clothes, the upgrade had been apparent and too much of a temptation to pass up.

The sound of a desperate cried forced Geralt’s attention from his new clothes to what seemed to be a priest of the holy fire crying out in his direction.

“Stop!” The man commanded, shuffling towards the mutant with all the speed his robes afforded. “Stop, I say! Stop!” And slowing his footsteps, Geralt’s yellow eyes peered at the man who slowly closed the distance between them, derision in his gaze.

“Mutant,” the man’s eyes narrowed. “Count yourself lucky to have found the opportunity to serve the holy flame in penance for your… existence. I have a need for a man of your talents, demonic as they may be. A host of specters have taken residence in my church’s cemetery and if your kind must truly walk this plain then let you at least be useful to those who suffer your company.” He finished by turning his nose up at the wandering warrior, open disgust twisting his already sharp chin and hooked nose.  

“Hell of a way to ask for a favor,” Geralt’s graveled voice rumbled. He’d been putting up with these types for as long as he could remember. Who hated or feared his kind, just not enough to keep them from asking Witchers to kill their monsters or slay their bandits. The church of the holy flame, of course, epitomized this hypocrisy and Geralt’s goodwill finally seemed to have run dry.

“Kill your own damn ghouls. I don’t have time at the moment. Maybe your flame will send another Witcher down the road for you to accost.” The white-haired man turned his back then, broad shoulders and twin blades glinting in the sunlight as he did so. He only made it two steps before the priest called again, his tone much less abrasive than before.

“W-Wait!” he reached towards the retreating Witcher. “I… you must help me!” he insisted, staggering after Geralt who continued to walk without interruption.

“I don’t, actually,” Geralt deadpanned. “People always seem to forget that,” which prompted an indignant huff from the man trailing behind.

“I have no one else to turn too!” The priest argued. “Those damned Nilfgaardens aren’t lifting a sword to help, and the country fools are more likely to do more harm to themselves given a blade than any creature of the night! I’ll pay you!” he eventually added desperately, “compensation, yes? How does fifty, no, seventy-five crowns sound? Surely that must be worth your time?”

Geralt found his footsteps slowing, not from temptation, but pity. The priest’s high shoulders and chin had all but collapsed as his desperation grew. And the pride with which the older man had spoken with had dropped to near groveling. The final nail in the coffin was hammered home as the Witcher heard him continue,

“Please?” the holy fire priest attempted, “I-. That really is all that I can afford at the moment. Unless you expect me to sell my churches silver…” and even then, he wasn’t indignant, just mournful of the lost treasures. Geralt could feel a sigh deflate his entire body.

“Is it close?” he bit out, impatience at his own charity rearing its ugly head. It never failed to amaze him, his tendency to getting roped into other people’s problems. But he seemed to have a weakness for the weak and foolish, despite his gruff exterior. And when the priest didn’t answer right away, too stunned to answer, Geralt found himself repeating the offer, even shorter in tone. “Your church. Is it close?”

“Yes!” the priest nearly jumped, “not even half a mile that way.” He pointed back down the road they’d been walking. “I’ve been… forced to sleep on the edge of the property the last two weeks when I saw you walking past.” This news came with some rueful grumblings. “Will you really help me?” and when Geralt grunted, turning around to stalk towards the direction the priest had pointed, the robed man nearly fell over himself to follow after.

It was indeed a short trip which was the only saving grace. As much as Geralt wanted to leave the man to his fate, seventy-five crowns was no small sum. Perhaps nothing so great compared to his own purse, but in this part of the countryside where barter was more common then monetary transaction, crowns were in short supply. He must be desperate to offer that much, probably offering up at least a year’s worth of tithes.

Geralt would understand his desperation much better as soon as he came upon the creatures in question. Leaving the priest on the roadside, he made his way low and quiet towards the center where the headstones were oldest. And sure enough, three wraiths wandered the open field seemingly aimlessly, their faces horrible masks of human women at their most tortured while iridescent rags hung from their skeletal figure flickering in and out of reality with each motion.

On the plus side, Geralt was quickly able to identify that the creatures seemed basic in strength rather than one of the stronger variety of ghosts. But three of them in the middle of the day wasn’t a bet he was willing to take so easily. Ducking behind a headstone, he quickly laid out his materials to see what he had available.

A moon dust bomb would have been perfect for the situation. Unfortunately, he lacked the ingredients and had even less time to go and find them. A vile of spector oil would have to do, which he emptied across the flat of his silver blade watching the bright green fluid become viscus and sticky. He had little more than a few minutes before the solution became too hard and started to flake away. Which was exactly how much time he was planning to waste before getting back to his original mission.

Continuing to sneak, a strategically thrown rock gained the attention of two of the creatures. Retreating down a path he’d been sure to memorize on his way into the cemetery, a field soon opened, and his fingers danced in the wait, a faint purple light shining from their tips as the Yerden sign began to affect a sizable portion of the land surrounding him.

The sound of howling continued to grow closer until their ghostly shapes exploded from the tree line only to fall into his trap. Suddenly corporeal, the wailing women would find Geralt’s blade already drawn and waiting to cut into their figures before they had so much as a hope of slicing him with their boney elongated fingers.

A few slashes was all it took before what was left of their existences dissolved into a glowing pile of ash-like material. Normally he’d take the time to scavenge whatever remains they might have dropped, but the specter oil on his blade was already turning an unhealthy brown color and wouldn’t last much longer. Unfortunately, jogging the short path back to where he’d originally found the specters, he was disappointed to discover the last of the creatures nowhere to be found.

Frustrations rose, but he forced the emotion down. The cemetery wasn’t large, and it was unlikely the spirit would be able to wander beyond its boundaries. It should be a simple matter of hunting the creature down. At least, that’s what Geralt assumed until his exploration led to the discovery of what appeared to be a large, underground crypt.

There was little doubt that this was where the ghost had escaped too. Just staring down the stone steps, through the wooden door the space inside of the crypt seemed unnaturally dark, as though some invisible barrier was blocking the access to all light. Geralt was not deterred, however, and reached inside his bag for a cat potion which quickly spilled into his mouth, the bitter flavor lingering and inspiring a slight ache behind his eyes before the bright summer sun became near blinding and the previous darkness of the crypt turned into something much more manageable. With no further hesitation, the Witcher crept down the path and began to train his ears for the tell-tale wailing woman’s voice.

The musty smell of death and dust filled Geralt’s lungs with each breath. Dirt and lose stoned crunched under his heel as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next, creeping and low to the ground. Unfortunately, besides the slight sound of water dripping somewhere deep inside the crypt, Geralt’s hearing failed to catch any of the usual telling moans or cries this type of monster was known for.

Its absence grew to the point that the man nearly doubled back for fear that the creature had wandered someplace else entirely. It was only as he examined a hidden wall in the very back of the catacombs that he recognized the familiar cracking of a hidden doorway that he realized the underground caves might be much bigger than he thought.

He got a closer look, closing his eyes to feel the faint breeze blowing through the stone. It was so dark in the small corner, even with his cat eyes it was no surprise he’d almost missed it. But short of time and eager to be done with this hunt, a quick gesture in the air spelled the Aard sign which promptly slammed against the fragile wall, smashing it into gravel and exposing the room on the other side.

Well, room wasn’t quite right. Stepping through the new opening, a long hallway stretched forward in a strange display of architecture. A sensation tickled the length of the Witcher’s spine as he felt… something in the air that wasn’t quite right. The air here felt colder, wetter, and taking a deep breath, the air sat on the back of his tongue with a stale edge he was almost too familiar with. No matter how he looked at it, he’d walked into someplace very, very old. And the deeper he explored, the more this became apparent.

Glyphs covered the walls from ceiling to floor, sometimes depicting pictures or murals while others appeared to be some kind of language. Studying the strangely geometric letters with a scrutinizing gaze, Geralt quickly concluded that he’d never seen the symbols, a fact that was more than a little surprising.

In addition to all of that, bizarre statues began to pop up here and there becoming more frequent the further Geralt walked down the long hallway. The first few were little more than dust or rubble clumped up against the wall. But with time he began to make out characteristics of what had been a bust of some sort. A horn. A snout. Even an eye with a rectangular pupil. He tried not to waste too much time, but the further he explored the more he was given the impression that he’d stumbled on something far worse than a simple wraith.

He kept waiting for a room or a door to break up the stone path, but the tunnel continued uninterrupted. This building, whatever it had been before, had been turned into a crypt and a church erected above its ceiling. And they’d clearly sealed this part away for some strange reason.

Of course, in his line of work, that reason usually ended up being a monster that they either couldn’t kill or worshipped — each worse in their own way. It got to the point that, as he studied the pictures and statues, when the ghostly figment of the wraith crept out of the solid stone wall, he nearly missed the sound of its ghostly claws rending through the air.

Geralt ducked before his skin was cut, sacrificing a few strands of hair to the beast as he tucked into a tumble. Spinning around with his blade raised, he was unable to get through the full Yerden sign before it interrupted his attempt with another attack. And it would continue to do so, throwing clawed hand after clawed hand towards his face forcing Geralt to escape backward even further inside the crypt.

Ducking, weaving, and diving as best as his reflexes could allow, Geralt found himself unarguably at a disadvantage as he remained on the defensive. The oppressive darkness this deep underground only further aided the wraith’s ethereal form making it nearly invisible even to his eyes.

What’s worse, while not so small that he had nowhere to run, the old stone around them made it hard for his much longer silver sword to swing more than simple stabs and deflections. But he didn’t panic, even against these odds. No, he didn’t live so long as a Witcher from giving in when the odds were stacked against him. Rather, he trusted his training. Trusted his gear. And trusted his knowledge of the creature in front of him would allow for an opening with which he could turn the tide and destroy this unnatural entity.

His trust would be rewarded. Ducking another swipe while his sword reflected another, the wraith’s balance suddenly shifted as it seemed to grow tired of its lack of progress. This would prove to be a fatal mistake as the overextension allowed for retaliation which Geralt spent summoning the Aard sign a second time to finally put some distance between himself and the creature.

Suddenly its ghostly shape was sent flying backward, its arms thrown wide in the momentum. The Witcher took that moment, biting the hard rubber of his boots against the smooth stone, to propel himself forward with enough speed that the full length of his sword managed to cut through the ghost’s entire body, disturbing its corporeal body enough that, whatever magic that once held its shape together was released, and the remaining matter fell to the floor in a glittering display of glowing ash.

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief noticing the last of the potion on his sword finally rot away. It had lasted just long enough to finally kill his prey — an occurrence that tended to happen far more often than he was comfortable with. Unfortunately, given a moment to collect himself and regain his bearings, the Witcher would quickly realize he’d been chased into a room far different from the hallway that had made up the majority of the ancient building.

His eyebrows raised as he looked around at what appeared to be an antechamber of sorts. The room was made of polished stone of much higher quality than the already impressive brickwork that had made up the entrance. Despite the age and dust, this room seemed otherwise untouched by time with even statues maintaining their defined quality. And it would be these structures that eventually drew his attention — a cluster of female shaped figures wreathed around a central male monster.

Geralt found himself walking closer to get a better look, curiosity as well as a healthy amount of caution fueling his motivation. After all, the last thing he wanted was to solve the priest’s ghost problem only to unleash some demonic god on the rest of the country. That said, as details of the figures started to become more evident, much of the reservations he’d been keeping at bay were allowed to dissipate in a relieved sigh.

They were monsters – that hadn’t changed. But rather than just the male focus on the piece, even the women were shown to carry demonic traits usually found on Succubi: their naked breasts and beautiful faces only slightly disrupted by the clear goat like lower halves and horns sticking out from their temples. But while dangerous to lesser men, against Witchers their main weapons of seduction and illusion were all but useless making them more annoyances than dangers.

That said, the central figure still confused Geralt in a way he wasn’t used to. In comparison to the women, who’s figures were captured beautifully, the amount of detail that went into the man’s shape was clearly much more impressive and deliberate. Right down to his… embellished manhood and balls dangling between a pair of muscular thighs

Likewise, a pair of horns just like the women’s stuck out of his skull. But where they displayed expressions of lust and want all bathed on this single figure, the man’s face was hidden by a ceremonial mask shaped to mimic a goat of all things.

Taking all of these details into account, it was becoming clear that this entire cathedral had been built to honor an Incubi, of all things. A creature Geralt almost couldn’t recognize if not for the scant descriptions he’d found in only a few books locked away behind the walls a Kear Morghen. And for a good reason.

Whereas the female equivalent was allowed to live arguably freely with the exception of those that couldn’t control their hunger, Incubi had been among the first of monsters that had fallen to the creation of Witchers. Almost always a danger to their targets and with a hunger that refused to be sated, a single monster of their type could clean a small village of their women, young and old, in a matter of a month.

And considering the fact that they stored this energy that they stole, rather than just feeding on it, they proved to be a much more threatening foe than the more irritating succubus. And yet, banding together, the Witchers managed to erase their very memory from the face of the earth. Or so Geralt had been taught…

It would appear that this shrine had somehow missed the purge. Interesting, but something that could wait until after he found Yennefer. The remnants of an extinct cult seemed more up Vesemir’s alley anyways. Unfortunately, turning around to continue back down the way he’d come, he would quickly realize the dead shrine wasn’t nearly as lifeless as he’d assumed.

The sound of stone grinding on stone was his only warning to turn around. Hand already wrapped around the pommel of his sword, his yellow eyes could only watch as a black mist began to rise from the incubus statue so thick that even his cat eyes couldn’t see through.

The mist spread and collected around the statue for only a moment before suddenly the mask which Geralt had passed off so quickly suddenly turned towards him, eyes burning an eerie color. The Witcher wouldn’t be able to blink before the goat mask was suddenly upon him, the mist acting as an avatar for whatever demon inhabited the cursed religious item.

Unsheathing his sword just in time, Geralt’s balance was suddenly throne as what felt like the equivalent of an ogre slammed against the flat of his blade sending his posture back and his shoulders screaming at the contact. If he wanted time to adjust to his opponent’s strength, however, he would be disappointed as the next blow came with all the speed of the wind nearly tearing Geralt’s weapon from his fist.

He paid for the attempt with a sudden and burning wound across his dominant arm. With its claws alone, the sharp edge hidden in the mist appeared to slice through his brand-new armor as though it wasn’t even there – biting directly into the flesh and muscle underneath. Another cut would land across his opposite shoulder followed by a glancing slice against his cheek before Geralt’s blade finally raised to block another hit. But even as he stayed his ground and tried to wait for the strange creature to tire, he would find his own attacks less than effective.

The leather grip creaked under the strength of his fingers as Geralt’s straining muscles clenched in their effort to swing through the creature. Aiming for one of its arms, however, Geralt would find the limb that felt very solid against his skin would feel immaterial against his blade’s edge which passed through the creature’s shape with little to no effect. This knowledge would cost him a particularly deep gouge along his right thigh without offering any clue as to how to defeat the thing.

However, Geralt wasn’t a hunter for nothing. He fought monsters, humans, and everything in between. And if there was one thing he understood from all that experience; it was that everything had a weakness. Now if only he could live long enough to find it.

Thankfully, at least in this instance, there weren’t a lot of options to attempt. A few more swipes through the body proved that the creature felt little if anything, even when touched by the silver blade. Geralt had ended up with a number of new wounds in return for that information. Which only left one option, it’s mask.

This was a good thing, in that it was the only other place he could hit. But it was also a bad thing, in that it was the only other place he could hit, so if it didn’t work, he was going to die. Still, never afraid to take risks, Geralt managed to hold out long enough to find an opening to allow an exaggerated overhead swig directly against the stone mask.

Sparks exploded in the dark cave nearly blinding his cat vision. Thankfully, he still managed to see enough to catch the definite flicker that interrupted the shade’s shape, not unlike the wraith’s he’d just killed. Geralt’s gamble had paid off, and he didn’t hesitate to follow his first attack with another, never giving the monster a chance to regain its advantage.

That isn’t to say it never fought back, of course. Between Geralt’s attacks, he had to keep his eyes open for the stray claw sent towards his face and chest, dodging each blow before continuing with his own. Training and experience allowed him to focus each attack on the mask, never missing. And each time the monster responded as though it were in pain, screeching in a voice that seemed to yell from another dimension. Finally, Geralt’s attacks yielded progress as the left goat horn was sent flying from the stone mask. A move that sent the creature to its knees clutching the now severed appendage.

Geralt panted overhead, blood and sweat marring his already pale skin as exhaustion drained his stamina. Never stupid enough to gloat, his hesitation stemmed from a lack of energy rather than pride, and he considered the enemy as wearily as though it were upright and actively charging at him from a few feet away. Fortunately, its flickering shape and pained cries continued no matter how long he waited. And given a minute to catch his breath, the warrior didn’t hesitate to step forward and deliver the final blow.

His sword swung down with all the strength in his shoulders. The sound of metal on stone exploded throughout the silent temple followed by a rewarding burst of sparks. Unfortunately, feeling the tip of his blade catch much lower than he’d aimed, Geralt’s eyes widened seeing the figure all but gone and his sword embedded in the stone floor. This realization would come far too late as a sudden pressure against his side tackled him towards the floor, leaving his sword standing buried in the smooth stone.

 The lack of weapon and surprise would leave Geralt all but defenseless as the creature quickly used its monstrous strength to pin the man’s hands above his head, glowing red eyes behind the mask staring directly into Geralt’s wide gaze.

Geralt couldn’t hold back a struggling curse as he fought against the demon’s hold to no avail. The creature’s hands might as well have been made from the same stone pressed against his back. But waiting for the blow that would end his life and waiting for an opportunity to circumvent the attempt, his attention would quickly turn towards the stone mask slowly turning until it’s smooth, glittering interior positioned itself directly above his wide expression.

“Damn it!” Geralt cursed again, redoubling his efforts as the creature’s intentions became clear. But no matter how much he bucked or writhed, the creature on top of him wouldn’t budge. In fact, Geralt could feel what little strength he had growing weaker and weaker. It was only when he thought to look down at himself that he realized the black mist was seeping into his body wherever they touched. And all the while the mask continued to grow closer until finally, the unnaturally cold surface fixed itself to his flesh sending the equivalent of a lightning bolt through his entire nervous system.

Geralt gasped at the sensation, not painful so much as jarring. He didn’t even realize that he’d regained control of his body until his hands were already at the mask, desperately pulling to remove it even at the cost of his own skin. Unfortunately, a voice already told him that he’d been too late.

“Relax…” a seductive tone cooed in his ear. The voice was clearly male, however, seemingly made from ash and honey as it’s deep rumbling tone sang into Geralt’s ears a song of cream and sleep. “Do not fight me. It will all be over soon.” And he wanted to listen, which just proved how powerful this demon, no, this Incubus really was. But Geralt didn’t stop resisting even as he felt the weight on his arms triple in strength. With no other options, Geralt fell into desperation as he turned onto his stomach to slam the blunt shape of his forehead directly against the stone floor. This would finally reward him as he heard the soothing tone cry out in pain.

He repeated the motion again, and again, and again, and continued to do so even when it began to feel like his skull would shatter before the mask. Each blow was followed by a scream that threatened to tear the fabric of his mind apart and each wind up he found the will to hurt himself again that much smaller. Until finally, screaming out with the voice in his mind, he put his whole weight behind the blow shattering the mask, his face, and the ground beneath all in one hit.

Geralt was left to gasp in the darkness of the crypt, eyes unfocused and blood pooling from his shattered nose and swollen face. The effect on his mind was finally taking its toll as he felt the last of his consciousness begin to slip away. The last thing he saw before falling into sleep was the remnants of the mask slowly losing their glow followed by a single word uttered in the very core of his mind.

“Shit…”

Geralt strangely agreed.

* * *

 

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Please remember to comment.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Commission**

* * *

 

**Chapter 2**

**Tag(s): Forced Arousal.**

**Girl(s): Yennefer, Cynthia**

**Word(s): 5,497**

Yennefer could feel her irritation with her current situation with every shift of her horse’s weight as they both made their way along the unpaved dirt roads of White Orchard. It certainly didn’t help that travel itself never quite suited her more… comfortable preferences. By far the worst form of transportation when compared to more magical means. Unfortunately, considering the retinue of guards mindlessly marching around her seated figure, a misguided gesture from the emperor of Nilfgaard, alternate accommodations had needed to be made.

She hated it, quite simply. The dust wafting off the road and filling her lungs with each breath. The tight, constricting riding leathers wrapped around her thighs and buttocks. Which still did nothing to detract from the aching soreness permeating her plump backside after spending an entire day and night on the huffing beast of burden forced to ferry her across the country.

Her only solace was the clear vision of apple rich orchards sprawled across the quickly approaching hills to the west where she should, hopefully, find the only man who could force her to go out of her way and persist through such conditions.

It seemed like only yesterday when she’d gotten word of rumors surrounding two Witchers wandering the hills of White Orchard, her own name on their lips. A brief description of their appearance was all she needed before she was sure that it was none other than Geralt of Rivia himself, the lone white-haired Witcher who’s entire life seemed to exist to drive her to her wit's end. And considering how well her last attempt at reaching out to him had gone, going to see him in person seemed much safer in the long run.       

“We should reach town within the hour at this pace, Milady.” A clear and feminine tone arose from Yennefer’s right. In answer, the youthful sorceress simply continued to stare ahead, all but ignoring the other gift the emperor had seen fit to send with her in the form of a magical assistant who’d just so happened to have dealings with the man in question.

The dark-haired witch tried to avoid it, but she found her eyes sneaking down once again to peer at the young woman comfortably striding along the dusty dirt road.

Tan skinned and light of hair, her expression was of the harder variety. But compared to her own intimidating stare, Yennefer wasn’t really in a place to point fingers. To put it simply, she was a beautiful young woman. Although, that wasn’t in of itself to earn the more experienced sorceress’ ire.

Hearing that this Cynthia had dealings with Geralt, Yennefer had been helpless in her instinct to learn more. The girl herself had easily opened up once prompted, which is how the raven-haired woman had learned the tale of Loc Muine and how Geralt had so selflessly helped her acquire Aep Dearhenna’s devise. Innocent on the surface, to be sure. Unfortunately, the blond-haired young woman had made the mistake of allowing the smallest of blushes to arise as she explained Geralt’s dashing exploits.

Again, as much as Yennefer was loathed to be reminded of her paramour’s popularity with her own sex, it wasn’t enough to make her outright hate the girl. Although, it had led to their interactions remaining somewhat distant. In reality, Cynthia was little more than a stand-in for the woman with whom her real anger was directed, Triss Marigold.

Or, snake in the grass, as Yennefer had begun to think of her. How else would you describe a woman who would take advantage of something like amnesia to seduce her lover in a vain attempt at stealing him from her. Unfortunately, Yennefer could feel her hackles rising just thinking of the red-haired sorceress and quickly forced herself to calm down as she closed her eyes, taking deep calming breaths until the picture of the two intertwined faded to the back of her mind.

She and Geralt would be together again soon. And together, they would be able to save their adopted daughter from the wild hunt as well as everything else that threatened the safety of what Yennefer considered hers.

“We’re picking up the pace,” the soft, cold tone of her voice suddenly called out to the group of men. “If we would have reached the town in an hour at this pace, then I want to see it’s walls in half the time. Am I understood?” A chorus of affirmation immediately sounded from the men around her as their steps redoubled in effort allowing her horse to pick up speed.

Yennefer cared little for the sound of panting breath and muffled curses from the soldiers forced to obey her command. Rather, her eyes focused on the quickly approaching horizon where she and Geralt could finally be reunited.

XxX

Despite their muffled complaints, the soldiers ordered to her side were able to keep their pace the entire way into town. And as a result, Yennefer’s wish was granted when the flimsy walls of a countryside town finally came into view through the dense collection of trees growing on either side of the road. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be much longer before the sounds of screams began to sound off in the distance and a number of people could be seen fleeing the once considered safety of their town.

The group’s pace immediately came to a halt. Yennefer looked around as the sound of swords and shields rang from their sheaths. The men around her braced as the number of people charging them approached only to run right past them without so much as a glance in their direction.

Several individuals managed to pass by before the captain of her guard finally reached out to clasp the arm of an older overweight man running past, nearly pulling the limb from its socket as the terrified villager found himself suddenly yanked backward as though he’d reached the end of his leash.

“By the holy flame, man! What on earth are you all running from?” The man in questioned continued to pant and huff, answering only after he recognized the group of men in full plate armor and swords. His eyes suddenly lit up as he pointed back from where he’d come.

“G-Griffon!” he stuttered, nearly falling over himself to explain, “a griffon! It’s been attacking our village for the past three months. Please, you must help! There’s a Witcher taking it on for now, but who knows how long a single man can last against a monster like that!” But rather than answering either way, the gruff older captain just grunted before suddenly throwing the man in the direction he’d been escaping towards. And with one more pathetic glance towards the collection of people far more powerful then he, the random man resumed his escape, fleeing deep into the apple orchard where the winged beast would be helpless to follow.

“Ma’am?” the captain turned toward Yennefer. But her eyes were already set towards the town’s gate, resolute.

“Forward. It has to be the man we are here to find. Only Geralt could find a way to fight a griffon in the middle of town.” That man’s luck, he’s the type to find an ice drake in the desert. However, despite her words, there was no disguising the affection in her tone, nor the anticipation. With a click of her heels, her horse suddenly lurched forward as she charged towards the battle leaving the rest of her party to scramble after. Unfortunately, none of them would arrive in time to so much as lift a hand.

The villager who explained the situation failed to recognize the power of a Witcher. And it was Vesemir, not Geralt, who Yennefer would find facing off against the winged beast. But by the time she was within casting range, she would see that there was no point.

Blood poured from the monster’s left wing, crippling the bone and rending the muscle to pink ribbons dangling in a macabre celebration of pain. Unable to fly away, Vesemir had the benefit of the much narrower space of the walled-in streets. An advantage he exploited without shame, quickly ducking and running in and out of alleys with his crossbow in hand, firing bolt after bolt towards the creature’s face. Yennefer immediately noticed one such bolt sticking out of the monster’s right eye, nearly blinding it and explaining the erratic rage behind its mindless thrashing attacks.

Yennefer watched with no small amount of fascination. Behind her, the rest of her group quickly caught up only to find themselves in much the same state. Unfortunately, the bright shine of their plate armor, as well as the size of so many people quickly caught the older Witcher’s attention as he recognized the unforgettable pale skin and long rolling locks of Yennefer’s person. This would prove to be a mistake as an errant claw succeeded to lash out, catching the hard leather covering his chest and sending the old man flying.

Yennefer and Cynthia responded in an instant, spells tickling their fingertips as a pair of fire born pillars flew towards the monster in question bathing the monster in hungry flame.

The griffon responded like any creature suddenly caught in flames and reared up, a great cry threatening to shatter the eardrums of everyone present. It fell to the floor the next second, instinctively rolling its body around the dirt covered floor to quench the embers quickly consuming the thick and downy armor of his feathers. Thus, allowing Vesemir more than enough time to rise back to his feet.

Ignoring the group in favor of this opening, the Witcher suddenly charged forward, a battle cry on his lips as he leaped into the air. And landing on the griffon’s neck, the monster hardly noticed his presence until the tip of his silver sword was already halfway into the creature’s brain and quickly sheathing the last of its length until the tip sprouted from the bottom of its jaw. With the last of its strength consumed, the griffon slowly fell back towards the ground where it would ultimately remain.     

Both Vesemir and Yennefer’s party allowed a long moment to follow as they let what just happened sink in. The soldiers seemed especially riled up, whispering in awed and amazed tones at the man stood on top of the toppled creature’s corpse. In the end, it would be the dark-haired sorceress who made the first move, dismounting from her horse to confidently stride forward until the stink of bird and blood threatened to overwhelm her.

“Where is Geralt.” She offered no hello nor salutation, utterly uncaring as she watched Vesemir struggle to pull his blade free, sweat visibly pouring down the many wrinkles covering his otherwise bright features. He didn’t even turn to face her as he answered, a sudden geyser of griffon blood exploding out as the blade squelched free.

“Not quite sure, actually,” he huffed, finally managing to catch his breath. And giving the blade one last glance, he brought it back to its sheath in a slow motion before finally turning to meet her suddenly hostile glare. “Yennefer, you are quite the woman to track down, do you know that?” She didn’t answer.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she demanded instead. Vesemir just rolled his eyes before dropping to his rump proudly atop his fresh kill.

“I mean,” he grumbled, “that I haven’t seen the idiot for two days. Was in town askin’ about him when the griffon attacked. And you just know how fear of one’s own mortality can be a bit distracting. Thankfully, I was able to get a fairly promising lead from a priest passing by just before the town scattered.”

Yennefer was about to respond in her typical short-tempered tone when another man suddenly walked upon the scene, a small army of Nilfgaarden soldiers at his flank as he angrily stomped right up to the fallen creature and the man on top of it.

“You!” the commander thrust a hand as near to Vesemir’s face as he could reach. “You-You, you charlatan! You incompetent! I hired you and that other thing to kill this creature days ago! And now look at the damage it’s caused! If you think you’re getting one crown from my purse, you’re lucky I don’t arrest you and the other fiend on the spot! I say, you better get out of this territory while you can before I set my entire garrison on your useless lives!”

He was like an overly muscled child, all stomping and fury while his entire face blossomed a bright red under the strain of his voice. But for all his bolstering, the two people stood before him remained stubbornly unimpressed as they stared back as calm as ever, a fact that only increased his temper. But compared to Yennefer’s, his mood might as well have been some slight irritation.

“Look here tiny man,” the dark-haired witch loomed. Without a word, she brought her magic to her hands allowing them both to take on a powerful and dangerous aura. She spoke with deliberate slowness, making sure each word was heard to convey the threat she possessed. “I have not the time to deal with you nor your petty greed. And I will not allow your posturing to keep me from finding the one I search for. You may hand us the price you already agreed upon or my friend may retrieve it himself from your ashes. But you will not waste any more of my time.”

The Commander swallowed audibly, finally recognizing the woman before him. It was hard not to, after all, the power crackling in her eyes even more unmistakable than her unearthly beauty. Thankfully, for all his shortcomings, he hadn’t reached his position by trying to fight battles he had no hope of winning. Instead, he simply reached into the sack at his belt containing his coin before scattering the promised money into the dirt and retreating towards his men.

“Out by nightfall, or else!” he demanded, a threat that was as ignored as it was pointless. But he and his men were already retreating out of view as Vesemir hopped down from his perch to begin collecting the coin.

“Impressive,” he observed with no small amount of amusement. “Although, I am afraid you’ll not make many friends that way.” To which Yennefer just sniffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a dramatic wave of her head.

“So, about that lead?”

They spoke on the way there while Vesemir explained the situation; how they’d lost her trail as soon as they arrived in White Orchard, how the commander had promised information in return for killing an unreasonable amount of beasts, and how quickly Geralt had agreed before leaving to handle his half of the quest.

Yennefer would be lying if she tried to claim that the news didn’t calm her temper at least somewhat, to hear the lengths at which Geralt had went to reunite with her after so much time. But that tender emotion only made her worry that much more sharp as she considered the fact that he was missing. So, when they finally found the graveyard Vesemir had mentioned, she nearly fell over in relief seeing the familiar Roach tied to a tree just beside the path leading towards the church.

“Hmm,” Vesemir rubbed his chin looking at the amount of grass missing from the area around the horse. “Looks like it’s been about two days… maybe a day and a half since Geralt left here?” he reasoned, which was good and bad. At least this way they knew he was still here. But there were few things that could keep a Witcher down for that long. Unless they were down permanently. Thankfully, neither of the two looking for him were ready to consider such a possibility.

They knew Geralt. A man who had fought more monsters and men than any mortal had the right to claim and still walk the earth. But he _was_ mortal. An no matter how strong Yennefer and Vesemir knew him to be, all it took was a single moment, a second of hesitation, an errant thought to still one’s blade to cost them their lives.

At first, things didn’t seem so bleak. Yennefer managed to track down the remains of the wraiths without issue leading them deeper into the graveyard. These were fairly weak creatures in the grand scheme of things and not nearly enough to pose as any sort of problem for the seasoned hunter.

The underground graveyard was discovered next, which was slightly more worrying. But descending downwards and finding not so much as evidence of elementals or trolls or any of the other stronger subterranean monsters, they allowed their hope to remain. It wasn’t until Vesemir sniffed the air, leading him towards the stale opening of the secret passageway that they saw the beginnings of clear danger.

“What… is all this?” Yennefer asked, a disturbed shiver crawling up her spine at the bizarre pictures running along the walls. But it was more than just the strangeness of this unexplored path. She could feel it’s magic pulling on her, not violently but gently, warmly, enticingly.

She could practically feel it brushing against her skin in a way that left her more flustered than she cared to admit. If she didn’t have more willpower, it would have been easy to forget that she was in a monster-infested underground grave. And even easier to close her eyes and let the magic draw her towards… whatever waited for them at the end.

Thankfully, she responded fast enough to quickly clasp a hand around Cynthia’s wrist who appeared to be under the same effect, a much darker blush covering the tanned complexion of her cheeks as she began to drunkenly stumble forward. The distraction of another’s touch seemed to bring her back, thankfully, although she appeared dreadfully embarrassed snatching the limb away.

“Don’t worry,” Yennefer soothed in a rare gesture of compassion, “I feel it too. Just… stay focused and don’t concentrate on the magic too heavily.” The blond-haired sorceress looked puzzled for a moment but nodded, nevertheless. Yennefer quickly turned her attention on the Witcher in their party whose face had taken on a grave seriousness as he traced a hand over one of the more… sexual murals lining the halls.

“Vesemir,” her tone was short and… slightly out of breath, “do you know what this place is? What it was holding?”

The man in question didn’t respond right away, focused on the picture. “I do,” he eventually answered, a serious edge in his voice that did nothing to calm the group trailing behind. “And I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could talk you and the other girly into waiting here?” Of course, this went over with the sorceress about as well as could be expected.

“Excuse me?” Yennefer all but scoffed at the idea. “I’m sorry, but I’m not about to let Geralt bleed out down here if there’s even the smallest chance he’s still alive. I’m going with you.” Her intense gazed narrowed at Vesemir’s tired ones and eventually he was forced to give in.

“Didn’t think so,” he gave a tired sigh, “fine. I could be wrong, I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m right and I tell you to run, then you take the girl and make a portal as far from here as you can manage, understand? The way things are looking, both of you’ll do more harm than good. And no, I do not doubt your magic power.”

“What?” Yennefer shook her head, looking all around at the long tunnel trying to see what Vesemir was so clearly afraid of. But the writing was nonsense and all the murals showed were lewd sexual acts, most of them involving large groups of women by the looks of it. Her lips curled up in disgust before she could think better of it, her arms coming up to cross over her chest as the pleasant seductive sensations continued to assault her body.

“Vesemir?” she asked when he didn’t answer after a moment. But looking away from the wall, she quickly found the space he’d been vacating empty with his shape steadily walking deeper into the crypt. “Vesemir!” She could only stare for a moment before rushing to follow, that irritated stress rearing up once again at the difficulty the older Witcher presented.

She and the rest of her group managed to catch up with little difficulty, but there was no denying a sense of dread throughout each individual. The soldiers, in particular, walked like their limbs were made of wood, stiff and awkward, every muscle clenched in preparation for whatever could be hiding in the shadows.

These were men trained to fight in wars, to slay other men, not monsters. A majority of the party was made up of trained veterans, each experiencing real battle in one way or another. But that was out in the sun and the rain where their long swords and thick, heavy armor was more of a benefit than a hindrance. And compared to this more narrow passageway, they would be lucky if they could swing a sword without the tip shattering against the wall. And yet, their reaction could at least be described as normal. In comparison to Yennefer and Cynthia’s, at least.

Much to the two women’s discomfort, the sexual magic appeared to increase the deeper they explored. Far more sensitive to magic than the average female, the heady pressure was nearly overwhelming, flooding their very blood with an arousal that could only be described as sexual. And what’s worse, they seemed entirely unable to do anything to shield themselves from its effect.

This was different then fertility magic, which Yennefer, at least, was more than familiar with in her attempt to reverse her infertility. But that kind of magic was light, not oppressive, the very essence of life and what it meant to nurture and create. But this! This was just… desire. Pure and thick and sticky smothering desire that frustratingly seemed to only affect the two of them.

What Yennefer was unable to understand, however, was if this was an effect of her and Cynthia’s magic or their gender. And each seemed to bring about them connotations as disturbing as they were daunting.

Yennefer refused to submit, however, forging head no matter what effects she suffered. The symptoms seemed to go so far as to affect her mind, making her thoughts slow and hard to form. While at the same time, the leather in her pants became especially uncomfortable as the undesired arousal spilled out of her core to stain her underthings.

It made her want to pull at her clothes, to strip herself completely until her skin could finally breathe again. It made her want to reach between her legs and free herself of this stifling pleasure the only way she knew how. But most of all, it made her want to continue, to keep walking forward as though she was unconsciously aware of some prize that waited for her at the end. Whatever it was, she wanted to continue. She had to.

The corridor seemed to go on forever, at least in Yennefer’s perspective. At one point, poor Cynthia nearly collapsed, her breath gasping and knees quivering. Yennefer had been the one to reach out, slipping Cynthia’s shoulders under her arm and keeping her upright as they continued. Until finally, the passageway opened up to a single large room at which Geralt’s crumpled form lay in the center.  

There was no time to pause. The state of her body was forgotten as she and Vesemir charged forward, her world focused around the man that she quickly identified was laying in a pool of blood. His own blood, if her fears were correct. And laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, Yennefer’s fear would quickly turn to horror as the mangled wound of his face finally came into view.

Red, purple, yellow, between the bruises and blood and his open wound the two could see every color in the rainbow lining Geralt’s face. He was almost indistinguishable from the man Yennefer so clearly remembered in her bed. A stifled sob immediately wracked through her kneeling form, a sound that peaked a second time as her eyes found traces of his skull peeking through the open wound, all edges and jagged cracks. Quite simply, he didn’t even look alive; he couldn’t be. Thankfully, Vesemir managed to compose himself a bit better to move and check on the other Witcher’s life.

“He’s alive!” he quickly shouted to everyone within earshot. Yennefer’s tear-filled eyes immediately shot up in shock, her expression clenching in fear. As though she couldn’t allow herself to trust the older man.

She’d never seen him so hurt. She’d never seen anyone so hurt, not anyone alive anyway. And everywhere she looked, she only seemed to find more and more wounds that only spoke more of the impossibility that this man was still somehow clinging to life. Outstretched hands shaking, it felt like she was about to come undone right then and there.

“Dammit, Yennefer! I told you, he’s alive! But not much longer if you sit there. I can feel his heart beating, but it’s weak. We need to heal him if he’s to have any chance of recovery.”

Yennefer’s hesitation lasted only a moment longer before a warm green light consumed her black-gloved fingertips. And with a spell she hadn’t used since the day of Rivia, she put forth her magic towards Geralt’s bruised and beaten figure, although hopefully with more favorable results.

For both their sakes.

For all it’s risks, the spells seemed to be doing exactly what it had been created to do as she and Vesemir watched Geralt’s wounds close before their very eyes. Yennefer put most of her focus towards the more pressing injuries such as his head and internal organs. For how little blood he had left, the cuts had managed to crust overall on their own in the time it had taken them to find him. Unfortunately, magic was never without its cost. And despite the relief Yennefer felt seeing even the smallest of improvement, her magic was quickly draining in her efforts.

Clenching against the internal strain of her plummeting magical reserves, she ignored the accompanied pain and forcefully drew on power she simply didn’t have. She was effectively breaking the first law of magic. Never push. Never demand more than you had. Magic wasn’t like a muscle that you could simply work harder to make up for your limitations. It was like water in a cup, and once you ran out a person couldn’t simply make more water out of thin air. She was only damaging her own body this way.

But she didn’t care.

Even if it cost her life, she would continue scraping every minuscule scrap of her magic reserves if it meant tipping the scales even an inch, a centimeter in Geralt’s direction. He needed to live. If not for herself, then at the very least for Ciri. The only child she would ever be able to think of as theirs.

As much as it pained to admit, Yennefer’s skills weren’t enough to save Ciri from what hunted the younger woman. But Geralt, at least, had a chance. And if she could save the man she loved and by proxy the girl she thought of as her daughter; her own life seemed such a small price to pay.

 Unfortunately, life was rarely so kind even in the face of sacrifice. And while Geralt’s condition improved, he was still a far cry from the stability they needed to transport him to a real healer.

It seemed… inevitable. And so unfair. The tears Yennefer had been holding back at this point blurred her vision as she stared down at Geralt’s pale face, frustration and anger lashing through her soul like a molten bladed whip. And it was at that moment that the sensation of a hand on her shoulder broke through the pain, quickly followed by a sudden rush of power filling her cup once again.  

Relief the likes of which Yennefer would look back on many a day surged through her curvaceous form as she quickly grasped Cynthia’s transferred power to fuel the fading magic. Flickering in and out, the green light covering her hand once again picked up its brilliance until the healing light shone throughout the strange and magical cavern. And finally, it seemed, Yennefer allowed herself to hope.

The rest of the healing went slowly and without any more excitement. Vesemir spent the time with his weapon drawn, eyes scanning the darkness to search for the creature that might have done this to Geralt, but if it still lived, it was long since gone from this place now free to roam the earth.

With Cynthia’s help, Yennefer managed to close the worst of Geralt’s wounds, including the gaping injury across the front of his forehead even if it drained them both in their entirety.

He still looked like death warmed over, but it was an improvement. And if the gods were feeling merciful, it would be enough to keep him stable until they transported him to someplace where a real doctor could look him over.

It turns out the soldiers that had accompanied Yennefer all the way to White Orchard finally had the opportunity to make themselves useful as they carried Geralt’s still unconscious body out of the cold and lifeless tomb. One of the younger men was the exception to this, as the sorceress saw fit to order him ahead of their group to rush towards the Nilfgaarden garrison to requisition a cart for the road back to Vizima. And Vesemir… well, he hadn’t taken to the news with much cheer.

“I’m telling you all, he needs time to recover!” the old man shouted for what felt like the hundredth time since they started for the exit. Thankfully, they were finally out of the cave and back into the warm, bright sunlight. Darkness was upon them, however, illuminating the sky in a brilliant crimson as the last vestiges of day broke to make way for the danger of night. “Can’t you see he’s in critical condition? He won’t survive traveling for so long without medical attention!”

“And I’m telling you that we cannot delay,” Yennefer’s exasperated irritation flared. “The emperor of Nilfgaard has ordered Geralt’s appearance and he’s already waited longer than he’s willing for me to find him. If he catches word that I stalled any longer than I absolutely had to, all the work I’ve done till this point gaining his favor might as well go out with the chamber pots!”

“I don’t give a damn what the emperor wants!” Vesemir exclaimed, just as incensed as he threw his arms into the air. Unfortunately, the old Witcher failed to remember the soldiers stood not even a few feet away who naturally took offense to the rude temper aimed towards their ruler.   

 “You’ll do well to remember whose servant’s lord you speak of. I recommend holding any further comments unless you want trouble.” As he said this, the captain’s hand naturally fell to the grip of his sword, a clear and purposeful attempt at intimidation. But this was no simple farmer or street thug, and Vesemir seemed to puff up as his own hand reached for his blade.

“This is about Ciri!” Yennefer finally admitted, rushing to stop the fight before it could begin. The young girl’s name did just what she’d intended as Vesemir’s frustration was stripped away, replaced by clear and open worry.

“Ciri?” the man mumbled, greying eyebrows drawn up in concern. Yennefer could only shake her head.

“It’s The Wild Hunt. They’re after her. As well as myself thanks to my attempts at scrying her. The longer we stay here out in the middle of nowhere, the larger chance they have to attack us. And then there will be no one to save Ciri. As much as it pains me to say this, Geralt truly does have a better chance of surviving safe and sound behind the emperor’s walls. So, if you can’t trust him, at least trust that I would never do anything to needlessly risk Geralt’s life if it wasn’t important.”

And finally, Vesemir calmed, although not enough to erase the dangerous glare the had lit up the moment he understood what he considered to be his family might be in danger. “Tell me everything,” he groused, a low and rumbling anger that spoke only of a man who’s killed far too many to live to such an old age. “Everything,” he repeated and quickly made his way on top of Roach where he prepared for the long ride to Vizima.

Yennefer’s answer was just a long and slow breath. Maybe they had a chance after all.

* * *

 

**A/N: Another reminder, the person who commissioned this story has already reserved a third chapter which will be released at a future date so look forward to it. For now, comments and thoughts are always appreciated. Thanks for reading.**


End file.
